


Stay Calm, Citizen!

by ava_jamison



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, DC - Fandom, Superman (Comics), Superman - All Media Types, Superman/Batman comics, World's Finest (Comics)
Genre: Amnesia, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-04-10
Updated: 2010-05-12
Packaged: 2017-11-29 04:13:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,231
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/682644
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ava_jamison/pseuds/ava_jamison
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bruce Wayne gets amnesia. Superman is very handsome.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Stay Calm, Citizen

**Author's Note:**

> For World's Finest Second Chances: Bruce gets amnesia.

“Stay calm, citizen. You’ll be out in a moment!”

Bruce Wayne swirled his martini, looking around the empty elevator for the voice. It seemed to be coming from the other side of the elevator door. And it felt like a voice he knew—vaguely, the way you recognize an actor’s voice from television. Then hands appeared, greenish in the elevator’s emergency lighting, gripping one side each of the door—bare hands, pushing and gripping and working the door and then…

“Oh, Superman.” In all his glory.

“Bruce,” Superman said, sounding more than a little surprised and much more familiar than Bruce Wayne would have imagined Superman to sound.

“I wouldn’t have thought you’d know my name, but I’m very, very flattered, Superman.” He took another sip of his martini. The man’s biceps were bulging—the muscles in his neck bowing just slightly, the hard pecs on his chest just huge—he let his eyes travel on downward, taking in the taut, corrugated muscles of the man’s abs, dipping to a trim waist and _very_ nice hips and—”

“Bruce!” Superman hissed at him. “Do you think you could get on out of this box?”

Well if you put it that way. He slipped between the doors, under the man’s arm, brushing ever so slightly against a hard, warm ribcage. Superman frowned at him.

Bruce took another sip of his drink, taking in the emergency personnel scurrying through the hall.

Behind him, Superman let the doors to the elevator close with a bang. “You okay, Bruce?”

“Never better.”

“You seem… funny. Is something up?”

Bruce winked at him. “You tell me, Tiger.” He gave him another long look, head to toe, leaning back against the hallway wall, spending longer than was strictly necessary on one of Superman’s regions in particular, just to make his point.

“Bruce!” Superman grabbed his arm.

“Excuse me, Superman,” said a voice behind him.

“Er, yes.” Superman moved to give the cop room to jog past him. “Sorry.” He lowered his voice and tried again. “I mean, Mr. Wayne, are you alright?”

“Why so formal all of a sudden, big guy?” Bruce squeezed the blue-clad forearm. “Like I said, better than I ever thought I’d be. Now that _you’re_ here.”

“Excuse us, Superman.”

“Sorry, gentlemen.” Superman moved to let a trio of firefighters through the hallway. “What’s gotten into you, Bruce?” Superman hissed in a half-whisper, dragging him toward a stairwell.

“Nothing yet.” Bruce raised an eyebrow. “But I have my hopes.”

Superman shoved him into the dimly lit emergency stairway.

“And they’re getting higher all the time.” Bruce smiled what he hoped was his most glittering smile.

Above them footsteps echoed, and three EMT’s appeared, sprinting their way down.

Bruce ignored them in favor of focusing on the man in red and blue.

Superman, however—despite his earlier apparent interest—did not seem to want to pursue small talk. “I need to go check on evacuees.”

“Aren’t I an evacuee?”

“Well, no. No you’re not. For one thing you’re still here. For another—”

“ _You’re_ the one who dragged me into a stairwell. After rescuing me. Me, personally. My hero. He reached up to graze a finger along the man’s charmingly flushing cheek.

“Bruce…”

Bruce followed Superman’s gaze. His brilliant, clear blue gaze was focused on a goofy-looking kid of about nineteen, an EMT who seemed frozen in the hero’s presence, looking back and forth between Bruce and Superman. “Everything—” the kid's voice cracked just a little. “Everything okay here, Superman?”

“I—I—yes. All clear now?”

“Yes, sir. All floors code green.”

“Good work.” Superman squeezed the young EMT’s shoulder and the guy beamed like he’d just been knighted. He turned his gap-toothed grin on Bruce, but still spoke to Superman. “Need me to take this guy on down?”

“No—”

“Any other help?”

“The only thing I could use is another martini,” Bruce said. “You can go attend to someone who needs your attention.”

The kid darted a look at Superman, who kind of shrug-nodded.

“As soon as possible,” Bruce added. The kid clattered on down the stairs.

Bruce took another sip of his drink.

Superman crossed his arms and looked at him rather… oddly. “You okay, Bruce?”

“You keep asking that,” Bruce said, taking the toothpick from his martini and bringing the olive on the end of it to his mouth. He wrapped his lips around it.

Superman stared. “Bruce…”

“Mmm.” Bruce said around his olive.

“Bruce, stop it.”

“Stop what, Superman?” Very, very deliberately, eyes locked on those brilliantly sparkling blue ones, he sucked out the pimento with a slurp.

Superman shifted on his feet. Looked… well, not horrified, but it wasn’t quite the look Bruce had been going for, either. Olive still on the toothpick, he delicately tongued the hollow hole where the pimento had been—

“Okay, that’s enough, Bruce,” he said. But Superman really hadn’t taken his eyes off of his mouth, he noticed.

“Olive?” He quirked his lip and extended the thing.

Superman held out a hand in the international sign for stop. Bruce was sure he’d seen that on the news before.

“I saw you earlier, on the roof.”

“I’m sure you didn’t see _me_ , Superman. I’ve been stuck in that elevator since… for a while now, I suppose. Looks like there was some kind of…” he waved his hand, far less interested in anything that didn’t have to do with standing here talking to this god in tights, “problem or something.”

“Well, the bomb…”

“Oh, a bomb. W. E. would be in trouble if we didn’t have _you_ here—hold on, don’t they call you the Man of Steel?” He punched Superman in the shoulder, smiling. “Ow!” He shook his hand, pretending he’d hurt himself.

“Uh-huh.” Superman reached for the doorknob just behind Bruce. "Listen, Bruce—Mr. Wayne…”

“I like Bruce better. You can call me Bruce.” Bruce blocked the door. “You could probably call me anything.” His tuxedo-clad hip bumped Superman’s arm and the man yanked it back like he’d been burnt.

The stairwell, which had only been dimly lit by emergency lighting, now become bright as the main fluorescents flickered, then gleamed with the humming thrum of electricity. “Very good. Now we can take the elevator. Shall we continue this in my penthouse? It’s very, _very_ private.”

“Are you trying to tell me—?” Superman looked around nervously. Yes, Bruce Wayne actually had a nervous Superman in a stairwell. Not bad, but no… penthouse was always better. “Are we being bugged?”

“There _are_ cameras everywhere in this building.”

Superman’s eyes narrowed, and he nodded sagely, eyes shifting to the various corners of the stairwell, where there were indeed, cameras.

“See?” Bruce said.

Superman grasped his arm, leaned close, and whispered in his ear. He barely moved his lips, but his breath rustled against Bruce’s earlobe, sending a curling little wave of frisson. Bruce missed most what he said—and imagined he could be forgiven that, seeing as how a Man of Steel was whispering in his ear, but it seemed to have something to do with a bomb: Superman was glad a bomb had been disarmed and that no one was injured. Then, sadly, the tantalizing breath of air on his ear stopped, and Superman leaned back. He seemed to be waiting.

Bruce copied the man’s manner, taking the opportunity to lean close and whisper into Superman’s ear. Superman’s delicious, shell-like ear. “I need to talk to you.” he said, feeling his own warm breath bounce off Superman’s strong jaw line. His voice was a low insinuation. “ _Really_ talk to you.”

Superman nodded. “We need to catch each other up.”

“Fill each other in.”

“There’s more going on here than I thought.”

“Indeed.” For no good reason except that he wanted to, Bruce let his hand drift up towards Superman’s face, and that perfect cleft in his oh-so-perfectly formed chin.

Superman seemed to think that meant Bruce wanted him to lean closer. So he did. Superman’s ear was now close enough to lick. Close enough to tongue along the whorls and ridges, close enough to mouth and bite the earlobe. He resisted the temptation, instead choosing to murmur, low and husky. “Come up to my penthouse and slip into something comfortable, Superman. Like me.”

Superman… Superman jumped in his skin, blue eyes huge. It must’ve been too early, but he’d _seemed_ friendly enough. “Bruce, _what_ is wrong?”

Bruce opened his mouth to offer some ideas on how Superman could make him feel right, but they were interrupted by the rattle and bump of the stairwell door as it opened. It was one of the building’s security guards. “Superman, the Fire Chief’s looking for you. You too, Mr. Wayne.”

“Where is he?”

“Ballroom. They’re letting all the employees come back up.

Superman nodded. Frowned at Bruce. Bruce shrugged.

“You’re coming with me.” Superman grabbed his arm.

“Mm, anything you say. And I do mean _anything_.”

“Bruce, could you just…”

“What is it, _Superman_?”

Superman rolled his shoulders. “Nothing. But I’m keeping an eye on you.”

“Likewise, Tiger.”


	2. Strangers in the Night

Party guests, most of them W. E. employees, slowly filtered back into the ballroom, wandering under a banner that read: _Congratulations on a Stellar Red Cross Drive!_ The band had made it back up already and lilting strains of “Strangers in the Night” softly filled the room. The fire chief nodded, phone at his ear. “Gentlemen.” 

“Marcos,” Bruce said, _fairly_ sure that was the right name—he remembered him from some community function, or maybe the news, the way he knew Superman. 

The man nodded. “On hold with the bomb squad, be with you both in a minute. Anywhere I can take this and get a little privacy? Ah,” he answered his own question, heading for a balcony. “Be right back.”

“Bruce—” A waiter walked by and Superman lowered his voice. “Mr. Wayne, I mean—”

“Hang on—let me snag this.” Bruce hooked a champagne flute from the waiter’s tray. “Yes, Superman?”

Superman’s voice was a whisper. “Are you drunk?”

Bruce raised his eyebrows twice in quick succession. “I’m just intoxicated by your presence.” He took a sip, then frowned at the drink in his hand. “I didn’t really need this, however.”

“Good. I think you’ve had enough.”

“It’s warm.” He snapped his fingers at the kid with the tray. “Pour fresh champagne for the guests. And bring me a vodka martini. Dirty.” 

A walkie crackled nearby—from the pocket of the fire chief’s uniform. “Superman, Mr. Wayne.” Marcos joined them. “Situation’s all clear.” 

“What happened?”

“Didn’t they tell you?”

“No one tells me _anything_.” Bruce nodded toward the Man of Steel. “And Superman here isn’t terribly talkative. Nice to look at, though.”

The fire chief stared at him. Looked at Superman, whose mouth was clamped in a thin line, ears turning pink.

Bruce wanted to touch them, feel their warmth, make the luscious flush spread all over—

Marcos pushed back his helmet to scratch his forehead. “Okay, then. So, uh… not one hundred percent sure yet, Mr. Wayne, but I guess we all owe a lot to Superman here. The bomb squad’s really happy to get this bomb and Superman sure picked the right time to swing by Gotham.”

“That _is_ lucky. For W. E. _and_ for me.” 

“Uh, yeah.” Marcus nodded. “Whole thing’s lucky. Didn’t turn out so good in the other places.”

Superman’s eyes narrowed. “What happened in the other places?”

“Haven’t you heard?” Marcos asked. “It’s been on every channel—”

“I’ve—I’ve been gone for a few days. What happened in the other places?”

“Where have you been, Superman?” Bruce said blandly.

“Out of the country.”

“Where?”

“I’ll tell you later.”

“Promise?” 

“Br—Mr. Wayne. Could you _please_ let Mr. Marcos continue?” Superman folded his arms, pointedly turning his attention to the fire chief.

“So…well,” the man said, stammering a little, “Nobody got hurt, but… those financial institutions sure took a loss when the employees went screwy. I guess you owe your business to Superman, Wayne.”

Superman looked surprised. “Well, not—”

“He _is_ very heroic, isn’t he,” Bruce agreed. The boy finally arrived with his martini and Bruce shot an index finger at Superman. “Drink?” 

Superman waved him off. Rather irritably, he couldn’t help but notice. “Marcos? Can I get you a drink?” 

“No, no. On the job.”

“Soda, coffee?”

“Yeah, okay. I’ll take a coffee.” 

The young man scurried off. 

“Do continue your story, Marcos. Like I said, stuck in an elevator for all the excitement.”

“We got a call about a bomb set to blow, so we evac-ed. Superman showed up to help and… ” The man cocked a thumb at the vision in red and blue. “Don’t ask me how he did it, but somehow between getting folks out, he defused the bomb.”

Superman nodded. “I didn’t do all—” 

“So humble,” Bruce said. “Did you throw the bomb into the sun?” He reached for the olive in his martini. 

“Oh, no you don’t.” Superman grabbed it first. Ate it, glaring at him. Then noticed the other two men staring at him and gulped. “I thought,” Superman said, “that somebody saw Batman on the roof.” 

“Gotham.” Marcos shrugged. “People see him all the time. Or think they do. Lucky it was you and not him who took care of things tonight.”

“What do you mean, me and not Batman?”

“Well, you're Superman.”

“Meaning?”

“Well... ” Marcos said. “Confidentially, you're not Batman.” He rolled his eyes, just slightly. “Right, Wayne?”

Bruce shrugged. Swirled his drink, making tiny ice shards glitter.

“He knows what I mean.” Marcos nodded to Superman. “And besides, you're _Superman._ ”

The band was playing “Embraceable You.” Bruce half-listened to it, half-listened to Superman. Mostly he watched him. The hero seemed truly interested. His eyebrows had furrowed across his smooth, classic brow; his beautifully clefted chin was strong and determined, and he was nodding at the fire chief to continue.

“Coffee, sir.” The kid at Marcos’ elbow handed him a cup and saucer. 

“Oh, great, thanks,” he said, taking a swallow. “That’s good coffee, Mr. Wayne.”

“Only the best for W. E.”

“Are there any _other_ reasons,” the Man of Steel said, and did he sound testy? “Reasons it was better me than Batman who disarmed the bomb?”

Bruce turned to find someone to get him another olive. Maybe a fresh martini. 

Superman steered him back around. “You can get another drink in a minute, Bruce.”

“I’ve got a wet bar in the penthouse.” 

Superman nodded absently. “I know you do.”

“You’ve been to my penthouse?”

“Not now, Bruce.”

“I’d love to show it to you.”

“Not now, Bruce.”

“Give you a tour…”

“Drop it.”

“Could bring up a lady, if that would sweeten the deal for y—”

Superman's hand came down heavily on Bruce's shoulder. “Excuse us for a moment please, chief?”

Choking a little, the man nodded.

Hand clamped on Bruce’s arm, Superman dragged him a few feet away. Facing Bruce but half-watching Marcos, he spoke very, very quietly, and mostly from the corner of his mouth. Lips tight, a vein in his jaw was pulsing slightly. With fiery passion? He seemed more angry than amenable. “I don’t know what’s—” Superman said. “If you don’t straighten up, I’m leaving. And taking you with me.”

“That’s hardly conducive to what you’re presenting as an ideal desired outcome.”

“What?”

“Your lips say no, but your eyes—”

“Look, Bruce, just…” he swiped a hand through his hair, ridiculous ‘s’ curl popping perfectly back into place on his forehead. “Just... just play ball and keep it together while we talk—” Superman shifted gears, wheels obviously turning in that handsome head of his. “While we interrogate this subject.”

Bruce had to laugh. Mostly at the way Superman’s eyes narrowed with sudden faux intrigue. “You got it, Sport. That’s the way you want to play it, I can pitch for Team Superman. Or catch."

“Good.” Superman nodded once, quick and sharp, then dragged him back to Marcos.

Marcos drank more coffee. Practically swilled it, staring at Bruce. Superman too, but mostly Bruce. Bruce shrugged. Was it his turn to say something? “Go on,” he tried.

The fire chief cleared his throat. “So the bomb’s gone and I’ll let you folks get back to your shindig. Thanks for all your help, Super—.”

Superman touched the man’s arm. “A moment, please? You said that the bomb squad was happy?”

“Hmm?”

“To get the bomb.”

“Well, maybe I used the wrong word. Interested is more like it. Extremely interested.”

The man’s walkie-talkie fizzled and sputtered and he dug it from his pocket. “In five?” he said into the thing. “Superman, media’s on their way up. Want an interview. You too, Wayne.”

“What—” Superman’s large hand clapped down on the man’s shoulder—not rough, but insistent. Not to be argued with. 

And there was that seductive frisson again. Bruce felt an exquisite prickle start at the base of his spine, radiating outward. So commanding. 

“What was so interesting?” Superman asked. “About the bomb?”

“Not the bomb so much as some gas they pack in it. You heard about the bombs in Beijing, Geneva and Boston? All like this. That’s why we’re lucky you defused the thing.” The fire chief drained his last swig of coffee.

A very attractive employee passed them, and Bruce turned a bit, trying to get a better view, only to find Superman’s arm linked in his, turning him back to face the chief and preventing his pursuit of said employee. Which he had been considering, if all Superman wanted to do was talk.

He was still talking. “What,” he was saying, continuing very slowly, one carefully enunciated word at a time. “What… did… my superpowers… protect me from? 

Bruce pulled, half teasing, against Superman’s grip on his arm. Superman gripped harder and the irresistible tingle crept all the way to his toes.

“That’s right,” Marcos said. “I keep forgetting you’ve been—but it would have made the international news, too. You haven’t seen any news?”

“I _do_ keep up with the news. But as I said, I’ve been away for a few days.” A growl was creeping into Superman’s voice and it was going straight through Bruce, in the best way possible—a heady, tempting carnal thrill. “What...” The slight snarl in Superman's tone became more pronounced, and the thrumming primal wave roared into a pulsing electrical current. “What happened to the people who defused the other bombs?”

“Amnesia. Temporary partial amnesia.”

Superman’s mouth dropped open. Bruce availed himself of the opportunity to touch that perfectly sculpted chin and helpfully close it.

Superman glared at him.

“Most of them seem to snap out of before too long.”

“How long?”

“I heard it varies. Twelve hours? Something like that.”

“Excuse us, please.” Superman nodded to the man and pulled Bruce with him as he walked.

“Media'll be here any second, Superman,” Marcos called. 

Superman waved, barely turning around to do it. He was heading across the room, Bruce in tow. They passed small groups of employees, the buffet table, the almost empty dance floor and the band, playing “Someone to Watch Over Me.”

“Superman,” Bruce said, letting every bit of leer he had into that one word as Superman hustled him onto the nearest balcony.

“Bruce, I’m sorry,” the Man of Steel said. And then he bent toward him and swept him up into his arms like he weighed as much as a kitten.

“Oh, Tiger.” A shiver—an intense, hot, delicious shiver shot through his entire body. Suddenly he was being held by Superman, then a positively exhilarating sensory overload of flight, air flooding past them both, the dizzy rush of soaring upwards that didn’t last long enough and the feel of being held by Superman, which could’ve gone on forever. Sadly though, it only lasted long enough for Superman to get to the penthouse patio, and then he was unfolding his powerful, warm arms and setting Bruce down. 

“Why didn’t you just say so, Superman?” Bruce grinned, opening the sliding glass door to his apartment. We could have gotten out of there _ages_ ago.”


	3. Getting to Know You

“Er—Bruce” Superman followed him inside.

Bruce hit the control that switched on the music. Luckily it was already set to something… suitable. Then he hit the mood lighting.

Bruce, what are you do—

“What’ll you have, Supes?” Bruce said, loosening his bow tie as he slipped behind the wet bar. 

“I don’t want any—is that Barry White?”

“It’s a mix—might be. Do you like it? And I’m not going to drink alone.”

“I don’t—” 

“Loosen up a little, big guy. What are you, some kind of a Boy Scout?” Bruce opened the small refrigerator below the bar.

“Don’t you have a TV up here?” 

“Hmm?” Bruce said, eyeballing the row of chilling champagne bottles. Armand de Brignac, Cristal, Moët et Chandon Dom Pérignon Vintage 2000…yes. That’d do.

“Wait, which—got it!” Superman spotted the remote on the glass and chrome coffee table and pushed the button that made the Kandinsky opposite the couch slide back, revealing the flat screen television. On air, the petite little blonde anchor from WGGR stood on the sidewalk in front of Wayne Towers. 

“The bomb appears to have been rendered useless by Superman, whose heroic action averted an anarchist attack. Other strikes have rendered financial institutions powerless , but Wayne Enterprises—” 

Bruce came out from behind the bar to get a better view. “I need to update the lighting in front of the building.”

“What?”

“More mod looking.”

“Shh.”

On screen the woman continued, “It’s suspected that the same group of international anarchists are responsible for the similar attacks that plagued four other—”

“They’re thieves.”

Superman nodded, eyes still on the screen.

“Not anarchists.”

“You’re right.” Superman squinted at him. “Does that make you think of anything? Thieves…?” He stretched the word out. “ _Criminals_?”

“Well, certainly nothing as pleasant as the music.” Bruce slipped his hand over Superman’s, switching off the television. 

Superman frowned at him, pulling his hand and the remote away to flick it back on. “Bruce, I want to see the news.” 

“She’s done.” Bruce’s hand shot out to turn it off again. He tried to yank the thing away, but the Man of Steel wasn’t letting it budge. 

“I want to know what’s going on.”

“All business all the time, aren’t you. Can’t we just relax a little? Forget about crime and tragedy…” he let his words trail off, noticing their effect on Superman. The man’s clear blue eyes softened. And so did his hold on the remote. Bruce palmed it. 

“Give me that!” Superman took it back, switching the thing on again. It was a commercial for floor cleaner. “Do you have any newspapers?” His eyes darted around the room and Bruce took the opportunity to snatch the remote from him and turn the noise off. 

Superman squared his shoulders, holding out his palm and looking at him like… like a very annoyed kindergarten teacher. A very annoyed kindergarten teacher who was also a Greek god of some kind. Maybe Of Physique. 

“Give it to me.”

Bruce’s eyebrow arched. “Give you what?” 

Superman ignored his raised eyebrow. “I want to see the news,” he said, his voice a low growl that must make most men quake in their boots. 

It had quite another effect on Bruce’s physiological response—or maybe, he had to wonder—he was just wired a little differently. It… yes. He switched on the television, both a little unsteady and _very_ willing to comply. It _was_ Superman, after all. “On mute then.” 

“I’m calling downstairs anyway.” Superman’s eyes flitted to the screen and he reached to the end table, for the sleek phone in its cradle. “Zero or nine?”

Bruce blinked. “Lobby? Nine. But what—”

The man was already speaking into the receiver. “Copy of… what papers do you have? Yes, send them up. Immediately.” He hung up the phone, crossing his arms to stare at the TV screen, which was playing another commercial. 

Bruce shrugged. Retrieved the bottle of Dom Pérignon where he’d left it atop the bar and began working the little wire hood.

“Look, Bruce,” Superman finally said, after pacing through three more commercials and a story on the mortgage crisis. “We need to talk.”

Bruce grabbed two flutes. “All yours, big guy.” He settled down on the glossy black leather couch and patted the cushion beside him. “Stop pacing. You’re making me nervous.”

Arms still folded, the man did sit down. A little too much distance between the two of them, but wasn’t getting there half the fun? “So what,” Bruce said, making a bit of a show of sliding the bubbly between his thighs, gripping the frosty glass with tuxedo trousers that stuck tackily to the condensation on the green glass. “Did you want to talk about?” He opened the bottle with a pop, jumping up as a half-glassful or so bubbled over the top, dowsing his trousers. “Oh, how clumsy!” Still standing, he poured two flutes and put the bottle and one glass on the coffee table. He extended the other flute to the Man of Steel, who shook his head. 

Bruce ignored him, arm still extended. “If you’ll excuse me, I think I need to—” The doorbell rang. “The door. Think you can get it?”

“Er—sure, Bruce.” 

“And take this.” 

Superman rolled his eyes, finally taking the glass. 

Bruce made sure their fingers touched. “And then we can have that little talk.” He retrieved his glass and clinked it to Superman’s. “To my hero.”

“I’m not—I didn’t—” Superman tried to move to answer the door. 

Bruce blocked his path. “Bottoms up, Superman. You seem a little tense.” Over his own glass, Bruce’s eyes crinkled as Superman took a sip before setting it down. “Don’t go anywhere. I’ll be right back.” 

Superman had two newspapers open and folded out, one in hand when Bruce returned. “Superman, seen by staff in my penthouse. The tabloids will have a field day.”

The Man of Steel didn’t look up. “Told him to leave the papers at the door. He didn’t see me.”

“Pity. You denied somebody a scoop. And I’d love to be written up as the man who bagged Superman.”

“Huh?” The man looked up over the Daily Planet. “Now, Bruce,” he said, taking in that Bruce was now wearing a calf-length black silk robe. 

“Only thing clean, I’m afraid.” Bruce slid onto the couch next to him, silk boxers and robe gliding over black leather.

Superman put the newspaper on the table with the Gotham Gazette. “Bruce, listen.”

“Oh, I’m listening.” He topped off their champagne. “All ears,” he said handing Superman his glass again and clinking it. “To tonight.”

“What? No—” Superman shook his head, cheeks flushing and Bruce’s mind couldn’t help but form the sudden visual image of the way this man’s chest and shoulders must flush; of this man naked against black leather or silk and down, boy! Mustn’t get ahead of things. Superman was looking more than a little uncomfortable. Worried? Nervous, perhaps? He dinged his glass to his. “Well, drink it! Just a sip won’t hurt.”

“I don’t drink.”

“It’s just a neighborly little glass of champagne.”

Superman exhaled loudly and drank half of the glass in one gulp. 

“That’s the spirit.” Bruce took the opportunity to wrap his hand own Superman’s while he refilled the man’s glass.

“Bruce—”

“Just helping you hold it steady, Tiger!” Bruce pulled back to look at him. “You seem uncomfortable. I do have other robes, you know,” he said, reaching out and squeezing Superman’s shoulder. 

Superman pulled away, but he didn’t go far, shifting on the couch.

“Some of them would even fit a big, super man like you.”

Superman put his glass down on the coffee table with a clink. Scrubbed at his face. “Look, Bruce—”

“Mm hmm?” Bruce took a sip of champagne.

“What do you remember about tonight?”

“You rescuing me.”

“No, what else?”

“Well, it _was_ quite a moment.”

“Who are you?”

“What an odd question. You know who I am—which surprised and flattered me, by the way. Are you this interested in everyone you rescue? Please say it’s personal, Superman.”

“We’ve… we know each other Bruce. We’ve um… met before.”

“ _Met_ met?”

Superman pinched the bridge of his nose. Inhaled deeply. “No.”

“Met, then.”

“Yes. Worked together.”

“That sounds… unlikely. And don’t make me drink this whole bottle by myself. I wouldn’t want to get tipsy.”

“Too late, Bruce. And what do you remember?”

“Hmm,” Bruce said. “You certainly are interested in the most boring conversational topics imaginable.” He narrowed his eyes. “I know, let’s play a game. I think I’ll charge a sip for that.”

“What?”

“You take a drink, I’ll answer a question. It’ll be fun.”

“No. No, it won’t.”

“Try it!”

Superman eyed him warily. “I can’t get drunk, Bruce.”

“Then you don’t have anything to worry about.” He waited.

“Fine!” The man gave in.

Bruce let teasing indignation creep into his voice. “That barely counts as a lick! You might as well lap it up like a cat.”

“Cat,” Superman said, very slowly. The kindergarten teacher was back. “Does that mean anything to you?”

“Hmm…another question. Try again, sport.”

Superman rolled his eyes and took a real swallow. 

“There you go. That’s a good boy.” Bruce refilled his glass.

“Bruce?” Superman sounded annoyed. Looked annoyed, too. “Your answer?”

“What was the question again?” At Superman’s glare, he backtracked. “Cat? I’m… not... do I have a cat?” 

Superman squirmed a little in his seat. “Well, not like—look, other question?” 

“Which was…”

“What do you remember, Bruce?”

“I was in the elevator, then you showed up—”

“Where were you coming from?”

“In the elevator? Probably this apartment—oh, that’s a sip, please. I was taking the elevator down and then the power went out.”

“Why did the power go out?”

Bruce stared pointedly at Superman’s glass. 

Rolling his eyes, Superman complied. 

“How would I know how the power went out? I own the building and run the company. But not an electrician, Superman.”

“So you know who you are?”

“Of course I do.”

“Who are you?”

“Looks like you need more champagne, Tiger.” Bruce patted Superman’s knee and refilled. “Bruce Wayne, playboy billionaire, is the way I’m usually described in the tabloids. I suppose that’s how you know me.”

“No—I know you from working with you—”

“You keep saying that but I find it very hard to believe—”

Superman dragged a hand through his hair. His dark, wavy, imminently caressable hair. His tone was becoming more strained, irritable, almost. That was alright. The ones you worked the hardest on always had the best payoff. The man was still talking. Bruce tried to tune in. “Do you have any other jobs, Bruce?” 

“Other jobs? I think running Wayne Enterprises is enough, don’t you?”

“Bruce, knowing you? I wouldn’t be surprised if you had a whole defense mechanism set up for something like this.”

“I certainly sound mysterious.”

Superman’s lip quirked. “Some might use another word.”

“What word?”

“It… it doesn’t matter.”

“No, I think it does. Tell me, Tiger.”

Superman sighed. “Paranoid. Obsessive. Compulsive. And stop calling me—”

“That’s three words.”

Superman shrugged, smile small but wry. “The first one is… inaccurate. The other two _may_ have some truth. I’m glad you are, though.”

“Really?”

“It’s… it’s for a good cause.”

“I do try to do well for my company…”

“I don’t know if I should tell you—but… you have another job.”

“Oh, _you_ can tell me anything.”

Superman toyed with his glass, contemplating. “I don’t know. The way you are now? You’re… you’re not yourself, Bruce. I don’t know if it’d be… fair to you. The real you.”

“What an odd thing to say.”

“And the paper said—the other people who lost their memory? Two of them didn’t get it back. Not yet, anyway.”

“Hmm.” Bruce studied Superman’s hand, which was flexing and releasing on his blue-clad knee. Big squared off nails and strong fingers. He poured more champagne.

“They didn’t get it back, looks like, because they got a shock.”

“Really? I feel pretty safe with you.” He smiled. “Try me.”

Superman scrubbed his hand over his face. “We’re on… we’re on a team?” He almost said it like it was a question.

“Really? You and I? I wouldn’t have guessed that. What kind of team?”

“Um…” Clear blue eyes wandered around the room for a millisecond. “Basketball.”

“I…I see.” Bruce let his own gaze flick to the television screen. Sports recap, and it looked like the Gotham Guardsmen had made the playoffs. “I didn’t know I played …basketball.”

“Yeah. Well, you do.”

“And you do too.”

Taking a swig of his drink, Superman nodded. 

“That doesn’t really seem… fair.”

“What?”

“Superman on a basketball team.”

“I...well, we try to play f—look, we’re the leaders.”

“Of the basketball team.”

Superman nodded again.

“The basketball team that’s led by Superman and Bruce Wayne, executive.”

“Just go with it, Bruce. Maybe you’ll figure it out.” 

“Are we a local team?”

“Well, no. The team, it’s—we’re—we… we travel.”

“Playing basketball.”

Superman gulped more of his drink.

“Where did we play last?”

“China,” Superman said without hesitation. 

Bruce took in the television screen, which had switched to an interview with Hu Jintao.

“I see. You and I. Play basketball. In China.”

“Well, it was an exhibition game.”

“Obviously.”

“And you… you didn’t go.”

“No?”

“No.”

“Why not?” 

“You played basketball… here.”

“By myself?”

Superman nodded, almost smiling and not really making eye contact. “Sometimes you play…”

“Basketball,” Bruce helpfully supplied.

“Yeah. Uh-huh. By yourself.”

“Hmm,” Bruce said, lips curving. “I see. Is that where you just returned from? China?”

“Er—yes?”

“Well then, sport.” He settled back on the couch. “Why didn’t you know about the bomb there?”

“What?”

“In Beijing.”

Superman cleared his throat. Took another sip of his drink. “They had… had a different kind of sun there.”

“This story of yours is getting worse and worse.”

“It interfered with my hearing, as a matter of fact.”

“China?”

“I’m still not up to par.”

Bruce sighed, refilling their glasses. “Empire of the Sun and all. I do hope it gets better.” 

“It will, now that I’m back on ear—in Amer—home.”

“Really, Superman. You’re a terrible liar. Are you sure basketball isn’t some kind of euphemism for something else?”

“See, Bruce? You’re a de—you figure things out.”

“I don’t think many people would have bought that story, Superman. Shame on you.”

“For lying?” 

“Hardly the way to showcase all-American values, is it?”

“Do you even _watch_ the news?”

“Touché.” Bruce stared at the flickering, silent television screen for a moment. “So, what position do I play?”

“What? Oh. Center.”

Bruce folded his arms, sizing up Superman’s body. “I’d have thought that’d be you.”

“Well—center or power forward.”

“We take turns.”

Superman’s mouth quirked at the corners. “Yes.”

“Switch hit, as it were.”

“Sure, Bruce.” Superman bit his lip. “That’s baseball, but sure.”

Bruce tried to top off Superman’s glass. “Tell me more about our… teamwork.”

Superman shrugged, putting the champagne down. “You’re really good, Bruce.”

“I must have _exceptional_ skills. To be on a team with Superman.”

“You’re the best.”

“I must have good play design,” Bruce said, putting his own glass down next to Superman’s.

“Very good.”

“I must have excellent eye-hand coordination.” His calf skated closer to spandex.

“Well, yes.” Superman looked sideways at the man who was inching closer to him on the couch.

“Must be good at sizing up my opponent.” Bruce trailed his hand over a perfect bicep.

“What are you doing?”

“What do you want me to do?” He leaned closer. 

“Er, not this?”

“No?”

“No.” Superman scooted to the farthest end of the couch. Picked up his drink, almost like he was brandishing it between the two of them. “You’re going to hate yourself in the morning, Bruce.”

“Really?” 

“Trust me.”

Bruce leaned close enough to whisper in the man’s ear. “Let me worry about that. Relax, Tiger.”

Superman choked a little on his drink. Or maybe it was the bubbles. 

“Okay, sport?” Bruce clapped him on the shoulder. “Oh, you’re so tense. I give _great_ neck rubs—”

“Bruce, stop it!” The growl was back in Superman’s voice.

“Hmm?” Bruce said, continuing to knead the firm, warm muscle under his palm. 

Superman took a swallow of his drink before setting it down and wrapping his hand around Bruce’s wrist—the one that was massaging his shoulder.

“Oh, so _strong_.”

Superman flushed, then grinned almost sheepishly and shook his head. “Would you stop it, please?”

Bruce leaned back on the couch, crossing his arms. “That was a question!” he smiled back at Superman. “You owe me a drink.”

“No. No I don’t. What time is it, anyway?”

“Hmm, I left my watch in the bedroom. Shall we go check it?”

Superman ignored him. “It doesn’t matter—what are you looking at?”

“Hmm. Sorry. I was staring, wasn’t I? It’s just that you’re so very…” He reached out and traced Superman’s jaw, slowly. 

Superman shook his head. “Bruce, that tickles.”

Bruce didn’t stop. “Handsome. You must know that.”

“Bruce, we’re friends.”

Bruce leaned closer—closer still.

“Bruce, what are you doing?”

“What do you think I’m doing?”

“Bruce! Superman pushed him, gently, away. “No, don’t… I cannot _believe_ you’re—I mean, are you _pouting_? You do not _pout_ , Bruce. _Never_ in my life would I _ever_ —” Superman took a deep breath. Pinched the bridge of his nose and blinked, hard. “At least I’m glad it’s me. If you have to—for whatever weird side-effect, act like this—I’m glad it’s with me.”

“You think _you’re_ glad…”

“Bruce, we’re friends. _Friends._ We’ve been friends for years. 

“Oh, I think I’d remember _that_.”

“Friends! And you’ve never, ever come on to me, or acted like…” Superman trailed off. Took another deep breath. “I want you try, really try, to think. I know your name. I know the name of your butler and the names of your kids. I know your birthday.”

“Anyone could look that up.”

“I know personal things! I know that you like to tinker on your car but you pretend you don’t, because you think it detracts from—from your other job. I know that you like frosted donuts, although again, you pretend you don’t. I know that you can recite most—maybe all of the speeches from _Henry V_. I know… I know that your favorite Woody Allen movie is _Crimes and Misdemeanors_.”

Bruce tried to think. “I’m sure I don’t like Woody Allen.”

Superman shook his head. “You don’t. But everybody has a favorite Woody Allen movie.”

“What’s yours?”

“We’re not talking about me!” Superman slapped his forehead. “How do I know that, Bruce? How do I know all that about you?”

Bruce settled back into his own space on the couch. He crossed his arms. Nodded toward Superman’s champagne.

“Oh, for Pete’s sake!” Superman gulped down the rest of the glass and practically slammed the thing on the table. “There! Satisfied?”

“Not yet, big guy.” Bruce refilled his glass. Dom Pérignon was almost gone. Good thing he had another bottle. 

“So? How do I know you, Bruce?”

Bruce shrugged. “The tabloids? I do get quite a lot of coverage.”

“No. It’s not from the tabloids.” 

“Maybe,” Bruce said, picking up Superman’s glass, “maybe you’re like Santa Claus.”

“What?”

“You know.” Bruce extended the flute to Superman, who held up his hand in a ‘stand down’ gesture. “Knows who’s been good…” He tried again to hand Superman the drink, this time connecting with the man’s hand, spilling champagne across spandex covered crotch and legs—“bad.”

“Bruce!”

“Oh, my. Terribly sorry.” Bruce snatched a handkerchief from the pocket of his robe and daubed at the wetness.

“Give me that!” Superman growled, standing to pat his groin with the linen square. He glared at Bruce. “Where did you say a robe was?”

“Here,” Bruce said, rising from the couch. “I’ll show you—”

“No. No you will not show me your bedroom. Not when you’re… not when you’re like _this_. 

“What’s _this_?”

“I’m not even sure, Bruce.” Superman said, still dabbing. “I don’t know, but I’ve certainly never had it directed at me, I’ll tell you—”

“Well, if what you’re saying is true, and I’m not willing to admit it is, although I’m willing to spend any amount of time and energy humoring Superman,” Bruce said, slowly moving closer while Superman was otherwise occupied. “Then if we are friends and we haven’t well… explored anything further, shall we say? Then that,” Bruce said, bringing one hand up to each broad, spandex-covered shoulder, “Is a shame.” 

Superman startled, his face flushed, looking down at Bruce’s like a deer in the headlights of an oncoming car. “Stop!” He pulled away to arm’s length. “This isn’t you, Bruce.”

“I feel very much in my right mind, but it’s quite… gallant of you to look out for my honor.” 

Superman glared at him. 

“I have robes.”

Superman glared harder. Kept dabbing.

“Go,” Bruce said, giving the guy a playful shove. “Get out of those wet things and into something comfortable… ”

Superman rolled his shoulders and put on what might have been his game face. 

“Not back in five, I’m coming looking for you, Tiger.” 

The man sighed and turned to head for Bruce’s bedroom. It was all Bruce could do not to reach out and just accidentally skim across those perfect, perfectly accentuated glutes. But he didn’t. 

Superman slammed the bedroom door.


	4. Standing in the Shadows of Love

Six minutes later, Bruce was knocking. Knocking on his own bedroom door. “Still with me, Superman?”

“Yes!” Superman hissed from the other side. 

“What’s the hold up?”

Superman opened the door—not far enough, sadly—Bruce only got a peek of super-torso, naked from the waist. Superman glared at him and moved farther behind the door, so that only his head and shoulder showed. 

“So?” Bruce sipped his champagne.

“You only have shorties.”

“Really?” Funny, that. The robe Bruce was wearing was, indeed, the longest robe in the closet. Had been, since he’d hidden the others when he changed into his own earlier. “They’re not that short.” He waggled his eyebrow. “Or maybe they are. What are you hiding in those trunks, big guy?”

Superman shut the door in his face.

Bruce was behind the bar by the time the man returned, dressed in his Superman regalia, now dry. 

“How did you—?”

“Never mind. I have—” he waved an arm, “powers.”

“I thought your powers weren’t up to par yet.”

“They’re… it’s just my hearing.”

Bruce pulled out a fresh bottle of champagne. “Seem to be hearing me just fine.” 

“It’s fine. It’s just normal at the moment, not super. It’ll come back.”

“That red sun.” 

Superman looked at him oddly. “Yes.”

“I mean in China.”

“Yes,” Superman said again. “Lucky it only zapped one power.”

Bruce worked the wire hood on the bottle in his hand. “Tell me more about these powers, Superman.” 

“No. And what are you doing back there?”

“I’ll just have to extrapolate, then. You obviously have super-drying power…”

“Heat vision, but never mind, I—”

“Doesn’t that burn you? Can Superman burn himself with his own heat vision?”

“I took it off, Bruce. And let it go! Look,” he said, hands on his hips. “I'm sure you'll be back to normal soon—”

“Are you?” Bruce braced the champagne between his legs, pulling at the cork. 

“After this… this drug wears off. And good grief, let’s pray that it does. But you’re going to have to stop—” Superman waved an arm rather incoherently. “This stuff.”

“Stuff?” He poured two glasses.

“Stop acting like...” Superman swept a hand through his hair. “Stop acting like you're...”

“Like I'm… ?”

“Like you’re pretending to come on to me.”

“Who’s pretending?” He handed a glass to Superman and tapped his own to it. 

“Okay, that’s it. No more champagne.”

Bruce made a small sad moue. 

“For me or for you.”

“What?” Bruce made a little sputtering noise. 

“Yeah.” Superman took his glass from him and marched right over to the wet bar to pour both of their drinks down the sink. “The bottle, please?”

“This is Dom P., Superman!” Bruce cradled the bottle protectively. “Really! You can’t!”

“Watch me.” Superman stared him down. “And bring it here.”

Bruce swallowed, eyes widening. A little rush was creeping down his spine, heading right for—well. He looked down at the champagne and up at the god in blue tights and red underwear. “You’re so… handsome when you’re calling the shots.”

Superman rolled his eyes, hand extended. “Just hand me the damn bottle, Bruce.”

“Cursing? _Really_ Superman.” He handed it over, making a ‘tsk, tsking’ sound as the champagne swirled and gurgled down the drain. “Ah, well. I do have more in the fridge—”

“Don’t even touch it, Bruce.” Superman wiped his hands on a bar towel and pulled two sodas from the fridge. “Zesti or Sprite?”

“I don’t think I like soda.”

“You don’t, but it’s that or nothing right now.”

“I’d like some coffee.”

Superman slammed the refrigerator door. “Okay! Put on some coffee!”

“You don’t have to yell, Superman.”

“Sorry, Bruce. I think I’m getting a little irritable.”

Bruce rummaged in the wet bar. “I wonder if I keep a grinder… here. Yes.” 

“Now, let’s sit down at the table.” Superman gestured to the glass and chrome dining table to the far side of the room. “Or would you rather go sit out on your patio?”

“It’s a beautiful night.” Bruce poured out beans and plugged in the bar’s small coffeemaker. “But the couch is very comfortable…”

“Patio it is. I’ll wait for you out there.”

“Fine.” Bruce pushed grind and the coffee beans whirled. He poured the water and measured, watching Superman pace the patio. Finally the man pulled out a chair and sat down at the small iron table out there. Bruce flicked the coffeemaker’s switch to on, and noted that his answering machine, just a little farther over, was blinking—five messages. He listened, waiting for the coffee to make; made a few notes about who to call tomorrow, but didn’t return any now. Didn’t seem terribly important, and he did have company. Waiting for him. He let the coffeemaker percolate and opened the sliding glass door.

“It _is_ a beautiful night,” Superman said, looking up at the handful of visible stars, the full moon, and the dark Gotham skyline.

“Very.” Bruce said, looking at Superman. 

“Does looking up at the sky make you think of anything?”

“What’s it supposed to make me think of?” He pulled a chair out from the round table and sat opposite the man in a cape who was tipping his chair back on two legs, looking at him with a rather… bemused expression.

“Don’t you wonder what’s going on?”

“I’ve got Superman. In my penthouse. Does it seem that I might prefer to think about that?”

The Man of Steel let his chair fall forward again to rest on all four legs. Crossed his arms. “I just wish I knew how the whole thing worked. Do you remember anything about say… this morning?”

Bruce shrugged. “I’m sure I got up, maybe saw the boys—”

“So you know about the boys?”

Bruce laughed. “Of course I know about the boys.”

“And Alfred?”

“Of course.”

“Why don’t you remember _me_ , then?”

“You sound almost hurt.” 

“Maybe you’ve blocked out everything that has to do with—with the rest of your life.”

“Is there much more?”

“Why aren’t you bothered by this, Bruce?”

“I’m entirely prepared to believe this is all a dream. At any rate, I’m enjoying it. Am I going to remember this tomorrow?”

“Bruce, I don’t know. That’s more your area.”

“Bet the coffee’s ready. Don’t go anywhere.” Inside, he daydreamed about Superman and loaded a tray with two cups. His machine was blinking again. He pushed play and listened to the voice of one of his employees at the Planet. One of his favorites, actually. Next to Clark Kent. He liked Kent, too. And Lane was looking for him. He could hear static in the background, and she left her GPS coordinates, in case he’d seen Clark—evidently she thought Clark had been at the party. Perhaps Kent was supposed to cover the story. Bruce picked up the phone and called her back, but no answer. Too bad he couldn’t help. Maybe Clark would call later, or she’d call again. Hopefully not until morning. Reporters, even the ones he liked, could be irritating, and he had company tonight. Very compelling company.

Superman could protest all he wanted, but he knew, as sure as he knew the name of a dog named Ace and where the hell had that come from? Bruce froze, halfway through pouring a cup and hot coffee splashed over the rim. He put the pot down, tried to think. It was suddenly just _there_ , dim and murky around the edges—light and shadow and the smell of that dog—some time when the dog must have gotten wet, and the feel of fur—how it felt to scratch the German Shepherd’s head. He looked down at his hand, turned it over to thumb the pads of his fingers, remembering. Something… something sad and nebulous, not a fact… but a feeling. Something sad about Ace. Not—not overwhelmingly sad, but somehow bittersweet. 

He pushed the thought away, in favor of equilibrium and the way he’d felt before—how long had he been standing here? Bruce cleaned up the spill with a bar towel, watching the god on his patio through the sliding glass door. 

Superman had kicked back, arms crossed behind his head, staring at the sky. Maybe he could see stars other men couldn’t. His legs were stretched out to their full length under the table, ankles crossed, chair tipped back and seeing this man—this man in repose, thoughtful and relaxed—he could be any man at all. Except that he wasn’t. He was absolutely Superman. And he was Bruce’s friend. Somehow, some way, this man was his friend. He found a spoon and stirred Superman’s coffee.

He had to marvel at his good fortune—what unbelievable series of events must have led to this. To have Superman casually sprawled out on his patio, waiting for his friend to bring him a cup of coffee. For whatever reason, the universe had bestowed upon him, Bruce Wayne, a wonderful gift. 

Superman was drumming his fingers on the table when he returned to slide a cup of coffee his way.

“Hey!” Superman looked up at him with a confused smile. 

“Hey, what?” Bruce sat down and tried his own coffee. “It’s good.”

“You used cream—” Superman took a sip. “And sugar.” His grin was huge. And quite charming. “Why did you do that?

“I don’t—” Bruce tried to retrace his steps. “I don’t know. I didn’t notice that I did that…”

“What were you thinking about in there? When you got the coffee?”

Bruce smiled blandly over his cup. “Judging from some of your earlier comments, I’m not sure you want to know.”

“Bruce…”

“Is that how you take your coffee?”

Superman nodded. “Don’t you wonder how you know that?”

Bruce frowned. “Actually, I do.”

“I _knew_ you’d start to get curious. You’re a detective, Bruce.”

Bruce put his cup down. Frowned a little more deeply. “I’m a businessman. A financier. A philanthropist.”

“But you’re also—you’re… you’re more.”

“I think I have a terrible reputation.”

“You don’t! I mean, people think you’re a little eccentric, but…”

“But what? What else?”

“Bruce, try and figure it out. How could you know how I take my coffee?”

Bruce sighed. “I’m… I’m not sure. I suppose we must know each other, but I can’t for the life of me imagine why I don’t remember that.” He rubbed his forehead. “Maybe I do have a missing space here and there. Because I’d want to remember that.” 

“Bruce, that bomb earlier?”

“Yes.”

“You defused it.”

“I did no such thing. How would I even—?”

“You did. And there was something inside it. Didn’t you hear the Fire Chief?” 

“He did go on a bit.”

Superman nodded impatiently. “Yeah—well, there was some kind of gas in with the mechanism. When you defused the bomb, you got a dose. Whatever the gas was makes people lose their memory—some of it, anyway. For a while, if we’re lucky.”

“Hmm. Assuming this is true, how shall I get it back?”

“That’s what I wish I knew.” Superman leaned back in his chair. “The sky doesn’t make you think of anything? The dark, gothic Gotham skyline? The city’s lights, bouncing off the clouds?” 

“You’re a little bit poetic, Superman.”

“Do you know Gotham has a protector?”

Bruce leaned back in his chair. “Superman?”

“Yes, Bruce?”

“I think I’m starting to get a headache. Perhaps it’s from the champagne.”

“Oh—”

“Do you think we could stop with the twenty questions for a moment?”

“Um…” Superman frowned. “Sure, Bruce.” 

They both sat in silence for a few moments.

“What is it, Bruce?”

“What?” 

Superman shifted forward, his elbows on the table. “You’re staring into your cup of coffee like it’s a crystal ball and the future doesn’t look good—”

“It’s the past.” Bruce put his cup on the table.

“Are you remembering?”

“Not memories, so much, as…”

“As what?” Superman said softly, hand coming to rest on Bruce’s forearm.

Bruce closed his eyes. “As feelings.”

The hand on his arm squeezed gently squeezed. “That’s what a lot of memories are, aren’t they?”

“Perhaps.” Bruce pulled away. “But hardly all pleasant! And it’s a lovely night.”

Superman’s chair scraped the stone of the patio as he stood. “Come with me, Bruce.”

“Oh, anywhere,” he said, a slight smile playing over his face. 

“This way.” Superman picked up his coffee and led him to the far side of the rooftop. 

“Yes?”

“Just… look, Bruce.” He extended a strong, well-muscled arm out toward the vista stretched in front of them, the buildings and the skyline and the lights of the city. 

Bruce sat down on the wide ledge that surrounded the penthouse. “It’s… nice. Beautiful, even.”

Superman sat down beside him. “It’s your city, Bruce.”

“I do love it…”

“I know.”

“How,” Bruce said, turning to him, “do you know?”

“Like I’ve been trying to tell you, Bruce,” Superman said, smiling just slightly. “I know you. I know a lot of things about you. I know… I know how old you are.” 

“Anybody could look that up.”

“I know the home you grew up in and the names of who you’re close to, Bruce. You like to help the people you help... help themselves. You snore a little if you’re really tired and you sleep on your back. I know that you enjoy picking apart the logic in Tom Clancy novels and you’re fascinated by John le Carre’s moral relativism.”

“The inherent uncertainty...”

“What? Yes.” Superman smiled, continuing. “Scotch Pine is your favorite tree for Christmas and you hate most popular music. I know what kind of dental work you have in your mouth and how many of your bones have been broken.”

“Hmm. Are you sure we’ve never…”

Superman grinned at him, then looked back up at the moon. “Oh, I’m sure.”

“Why not?”

“Why not? I’m married, just for starters. I love my wife. And Bruce, you’re—you’ve got a relationsh—you like women. You—you’re not really a _playboy_ , but trust me. You like women.”

“I’m not saying I don’t. I’m saying…” he couldn’t finish it, staring at the man who was trying so hard to help.

Superman snorted. “Like I said. I really hope you don’t remember this tomorrow.”

“If? Did some of them not remember? Their… their time out of time?”

“Looks like some of them didn’t.”

“So at least I’ll have that.”

“And you’re pretty good at repressing.” Superman clinked his coffee cup to Bruce’s. “Here’s to repressing.”

“Repressing, what… exactly?” Bruce raised an eyebrow, smiling.

Superman choked on his coffee. “Not that, Bruce. Just… some of your feelings. You keep your cards close, Bruce.”

Superman was blushing in the moonlight. It was quite attractive and Bruce had to reach out and let his fingers graze the man’s cheek. 

Superman turned into the touch, just for a moment. Then pulled away. “Bruce, stop.”

“Perhaps it goes with my general state of confusion today, but I’m not sure I understand,” he said, tilting his head.

“You’re not you.”

“And you’re saying we’ve never—the issue’s never been discussed when, according to you, this other version of myself is present.”

Superman smiled. “Bruce, you wouldn’t normally be this… not like this. You’re…”

“How am I?”

“Uptight, Bruce. You’re uptight.” He sighed. “Maybe that's too strong. You're… focused. You don’t make room in your life for… casual entanglements.”

“You said I was… involved with someone.”

“You are—have been for a while.”

“So I make time for… ” Bruce blinked, trying to think. “Selina.”

“Yes!” Superman clapped him on the shoulder. “That’s right!”

“And you.” He didn’t quite remember but he said it anyway. “We’re friends.”

“You’re an excellent friend, Bruce. You always try to make time for that, make time for the people you’re close to—”

“Make time for you?”

“Yeah.”

Bruce leaned closer. Smelled the coffee on Superman’s breath. “I’d like,” he said softly, “to make time for you now.”

“Bruce—you’re not playing with a full deck.” Superman put a hand on his shoulder. “And I’m married.”

“Do you love her?”

“I—” Superman smiled. “Yes. I love Lois very much.”

“Lane?” Bruce said, the syllable tumbling out of his mouth faster than his mind could make sense of it.

“Yes! Do you remember now?”

A surge of—not memories, really, but feeling—emotion, sharp and strong and searing—flooded through Bruce like an electrical current. He stood. “You’re—” he said, staring at the god next to him. “You’re Clark Kent.”

Superman’s grin was huge and blinding. “Yes, Bruce! Why do you look so sad?” Huge, strong arms caught him in a crushing embrace. It was—wonderful. It was wonderful and overwhelming and too much. “You remember, Bruce!”

Bruce pulled away; regret filling every cell in his body. “No. No, I don’t. Not really. But you have to…” He took a deep breath. “She—Lois. She needs you.”

Superman’s blue eyes flared, huge and panicked. “What? Where—she’s on assignment.”

“She called—” 

His arm shot out, squeezing Bruce’s shoulder. Too hard, gripping him with real fear. His words were fast and clipped. “How long ago?” 

“There’s time.” There had to be. “You’re Superman.” Bruce gave him a shove. “Go. She left the GPS coordin—”

“What are they?” 

Bruce followed the man’s gaze, up across the night horizon as he pulled out the notes he’d jotted down and shoved into his pocket. He pressed them into Superman’s hand. “Go!”

Superman nodded, mouth a hard line. “I _told_ you you’re a detective.” And then he was gone, a streaking bolt of red and blue. 

“Let me know how it turns out,” Bruce said to the empty penthouse veranda. He sighed; staring up long after the man had gone. He knew Clark could handle it. He was Superman. But he worried, nonetheless. The man’s hearing was off and who knew what else? Superman didn’t seem the kind to assess his battle-readiness as carefully as he should. 

For a good hour, Bruce sat outside, searching the sky—hopelessly, desperately worried; sipping the bitter dregs of his now cold coffee and thinking. Memories surged back to him, raw ripples of sensation and cresting waves of tragedy and horror that sought to drown him; moments of gladness, moments of fear. Moments of need and hope and rage and heartbreak. Victories and failures, mistakes and errors, loss and regrets and loss and regrets—all rolling across his consciousness in breaking, billowing cascades of emotion. It was… overwhelming. He missed too many. He carried them in his heart and mind but that wasn’t… wasn’t enough. He couldn’t lose another person. Not one more.

Bruce scrubbed his face with his hand and stood. He slid open the patio door, and inside, the television flickered an infomercial for some bodybuilder’s workout program. He switched to CNN, sound still muted. There was Superman, in all his shining glory. A little grimy, a little rumpled, but still him—exactly him. Apparently a story in… he read the caption—Kabul—had a happy ending, because Superman wouldn’t smile like that unless Lois was safe. He watched the man say something into a microphone, and then the camera pulled back and Lois was at his side, dirty and tired-looking but safe, along with three other reporters and a cameraman. “Rescued!” the caption read. He felt a swell of relief so strong that he almost wanted to cry. Relief and happiness and gratitude. And at the same time… alone. Glad for the two of them but achingly alone.

The penthouse’s stereo system had switched to something mellower, lusher, purely instrumental. Bruce pulled out another bottle of champagne, picked up the phone, and dialed a number his fingers seemed to know by heart.

“Bruce?” a voice purred on the other end.

“Selina,” he said, smiling at the warmth in her tone. “Doing anything tonight?”


End file.
